


Little French Song

by Shewolf_137



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cute, Domestic Fluff, French Lyrics, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-03 03:02:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16317887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shewolf_137/pseuds/Shewolf_137
Summary: This is a little domestic fluff piece brought over from my Fanfiction.net account and Quotev.com account. Arthur (England) is home alone, cleaning and reminiscing about Francis (France). This is FrUK so if you do not like, do not read. Please, no hate. I just wanted to write something cute!The song is Little French Song by Carla Bruniwww.youtube.com/watch?v=yv1D4Dx3LvMPictures found on Google





	Little French Song

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

  


# Memory Lane

Francis had gone out for the morning, fine by me. His absence just gives me the time I need to do chores around the house. Whenever I try doing anything with him home, he always ends up distracting me. Whether it's by coming up behind me and kissing my neck or groping me as I bend for something or even just singing as he cleans. Even now I can still hear his voice perfectly as if he were singing now.

 _“Quand tout va mal_  
When life goes wrong  
Try for a little French song  
French song are maybe démodées  
Mais si douces à fredonner  
French song are tender à l'envie  
Nostalgique à l'infini “

I sigh and smile softly, humming the tune to myself. My voice could never compare to his, the way the words roll off of his tongue so elegantly, the way his voice never wavers. I continue cleaning, finding the large house strangely empty without the Frog's presence. I hope he returns home soon.

             My humming slowly turns into singing as I remember the words. The words are halting at first on my unpracticed tongue but Francis has gotten the lyrics embossed into my brain. I can never forget them.

 _“Et quand on ne sais plus_  
Whever to belong  
Try for a little French song  
French song will take you to Paris  
To Pigalle ou l'pile saint Louis  
French song are dancing sous la pluie  
De Bastille aux Tuleries”

             I finish cleaning the kitchen and begin the next verse, the tune following me into the front room as I continue my job there. I wash the large bay windows quickly and efficiently, remembering the day Francis invited me to move in. There had been no forced marriage this time, no inappropriate touching, just loving tenderness. He had asked gently, staring out the window as I read on the divan, almost afraid to look at me for fear of rejection.

             Of course I said yes, once the initial surprise wore off; not surprise that he had asked me but that he had asked me so...shyly. Francis still wasn't looking at me as I got up and walked over to him, slowly wrapping my arms around his waist, leaning up to peck his cheek as I gave my answer. I could see his smile reflected in the glass as he enclosed his arm around my waist in turn, kissing me warmly.

 _“Because we have de quoi frimer_  
We have Brassens Brel and Ferré  
We have Boris Vian, Barbara  
Gainsbourg, Trenet, Prevert, Cosma  
Because we have de quoi choisir  
We have Aznavour, Reggiani  
Bécaud, Nougaro, Moustaki  
Edith Piaf, Cloclo and Johnny”

             As I finish the front room, I move to the study. I polish the mahogany desk to a mirror shine, dust off the bookshelves, and can't help but smile as I catch glimpse of a picture of him and I. It wasn't anything fancy, compared to Francis' usual flare, but the night it was taken was magical to me. Our first real date, not one of those political “dates” but  a true one. He had asked me after a UN meeting, not with the flirty, perverted tone he had every other time, instead he seemed once more...shy.

             I expected he would take me to some French cafe where he could get a discount because he had screwed the waitress. I hadn't expected the lone table set up beneath a canopy, surrounded by trees which were draped with little white lights. It was so beautiful, it took my breath away. Thinking back, it still does.

 _“Oui oui oui oui_  
Bien sur ce n'est pas Duke Ellington  
Ce n'est pas Elvis ni Jackson  
Ce n'est pas Fitzgerald ou Armstrong  
C'est just a little French song  
Mais quand le chagrin reste too long  
Moi je chante une little French song”

             With the study done, I move, at last, to the bedroom. Now if these walls could talk, I'd die of embarrassment many times over. But some of the stories they would tell would be sweet. Our first morning after, the first time we had made love that wasn't from a drunken night or pent up frustration, I was pleasantly awoken by the scent of something delicious being crafted in the kitchen. Despite the dull ache in my lower regions and the wobbliness of my legs, I got out of the satin-lined bed, dressed, and made my way to the source of the aroma.

             His smile from when I walked in was the most beautiful thing I believe I had ever seen. I thank God that I am lucky enough to see that smile every day.

 _“Because we have de quoi frimer_  
We have Brassens Brel and Ferré  
We have Boris Vian, Barbara  
Gainsbourg, Trenet, Prevert, Cosma  
Because we have de quoi choisir  
We have Aznavour, Reggiani  
Bécaud, Nougaro, Moustaki  
Edith Piaf, Cloclo and Johnny”

             I've finished my chores, the house now spotless, and Francis is still not home. He's been gone many hours now and I admit I'm getting worried. Maybe I should call him...just to see where he is. I did that so often when we first married, worried whenever he went out, afraid he would find somebody else and realize he was mistaken with me. Each time though he would come home to me, smiling that beautiful smile and saying my name the way only he could. “Arthur, I'm home.”

             I jump at the sound, turning to see the impossible, frustrating, _beautiful_ Frenchman of mine that I can't help but smile at. I walk over and hug him warmly. He kisses me softly, long, thin fingers combing through my unruly blonde locks. I kiss back immediately, welcoming his touch. When he pulls away, I'm breathless and lightheaded. Even after all these years, he still has that effect on me. As he tells me of his day out, everyone he ran into, his apologies for being so late, that little song finishes up through my head. I want to laugh at what this man has reduced me to but I don't regret it. I don't regret any decision I have made with my dear Francis Bonnefoi. Though we fight, I will never regret loving him.

 _“Oui oui oui oui_  
Et qu'on soit de Londres ou de Hong Kong  
Qu'on soit trois feuilles ou shu-bang  
Qu'on soit djellaba ou sarong  
Try for a little French song  
Quand les méchants sonnent leur gong  
Moi je chante une little French song”  



End file.
